#1: Elimination at a Triathlon

August 27, 2006, Salisbury, Vermont

By JASON JAKSETIC

The rain pelted my face until my vision exceeded not 20 feet before me. On my time trial cycle in full aero position, the deep-dish carbon wheels barely held a line as I hurled myself down hills at more than 30 mph.

I was in the middle of a half Ironman in Vermont. Unfortunately, I was never informed that August in Vermont could include a 40-degree monsoon. I was dressed in a sleeveless spandex singlet with short shorts.

The 1.2-mile swim went well enough. But now, an hour into the 56-mile cycle ride taking place before the 13.1-mile run, I was frozen solid, unable to rotate my wrists enough to shift gears.

I took stock of my body and decidedly determined that I couldn’t keep up this torture for another 10 minutes. I did my calculations. At this lung-burning pace, I’d be off my bike in 1.5 hours. Making the decision of pulling over and calling it a day would have been much easier, if I wasn’t in third place.

However, a pressing issue that initially spoke abandonment was, instead, my saving grace. My bladder had reached its maximum capacity. Races are lost in a 20-second pee break.

There, when pushed passed my limits of humanity, I forsake civility. I fought the greatest battle of my life: undermining the learned behavior of my sphincter.

The urine blasted into my spandex bottoms, seeking immediate escape from the tight quarters. Mixing in the downpour were now odiferous rapids of pee sloshing down my legs.

I never felt more alive. Who demarcated the point in life when it was unconscionable to pee ourselves? Invigorated, reborn, childlike, and with glee, I hurled myself to a seventh-place finish.

Next time, however, I’ll just remove my water bottles positioned below me before letting loose.

Jason Jaksetic is a professional musician and music instructor in northern New Jersey. Freelance writing is a great complement to his long, lonely, and imaginative hours swimming, biking, and running each week. He has since, in the heat of competition, let loose two more times.

#2: A Bloody Good Time

August 2007, Brooklyn, New York

By SYLVIA SHAUL

“You’re so wet,” he whispers. He’s right. I’m pretty sure I’ve never been wetter.

Then he’s looking down. At his dick. And saying: “Whoa. Are you on your period?”

Startled, I follow his eyes. And see blood. Lots of it. The overhead light is low, but there’s no mistaking it: dark and shiny against his fair Irish skin.

“Oh my god, that’s … yeah,” I say, rocking back on the bed. He’s holding his dick in his hand, and I’m watching (impossible not to), dizzy from the abrupt shift in mood. I realize how sweaty I’ve become in the half hour we’ve been going at it. Everywhere, soaked.

“Shit, I’m sorry. It’s never early like this…”

“Hey, it’s OK. Really, it doesn’t bother me,” he says. He must be telling the truth because he’s still pulling at himself, watching intently as he does it. He seems almost impressed. I’ll admit that it’s an oddly pleasing vision: the contrast in color and the sheen, then the suctioning sounds as his hand slides easily along. I think I could cry - not out of shame but because I find his response touching, soft.

The blood isn’t only on us. Flipping the light switch, I see that it has infected the sheets, the duvet - even the floor received a few trickles. And it’s dark, in some spots such a deep burgundy, it looks almost black.

By now, the ache has returned to my crotch. “Do you still want to….” I feel something warm tickle the back of my thigh and run south.

“Yeah. I mean, if you’re OK with it. We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”

At ease again, I laugh, relieved. “Oh I want to,” I say, grabbing him by the shoulders. “Really, really turned on.”

Sylvia Shaul’s writing has been published or is forthcoming in Bust, Diabetes Forecast, Health, Runner’s World, Running Times, Shape, and The Writer. She lives in New York and, for obvious reasons, is using a pseudonym.

Posted by Common Ties on Monday, October 22nd, 2007 | Email This Post

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